


The Wolf Is Taken

by AnneTaylor



Series: When Wolves Fall [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/AnneTaylor
Summary: Geralt was told to meet Jaskier for breakfast at an inn. When he gets there, the conversation isn't all he had hoped it would be.But he isn't one to give up. And when he persists, he realizes that man he is coming to see is not the Jaskier that he thought he knew.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: When Wolves Fall [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621207
Comments: 9
Kudos: 117





	1. Breakfast at the Inn

**Author's Note:**

> First of two chapters. Thought I'd post now instead of waiting. Am also working on the other branch of this series, Yennefer and her pursuit of the black dragon. Probably will slip in between this story and the Jaskier POV that comes afterward.
> 
> As always, feedback and comments are much appreciated.

Breakfast at the Silver Tree Inn was apparently a major event. The common room was very large, at least twice the size of any which Geralt had even been in. Many of the patrons were wealthy merchants, but some seemed to be noblemen. The meal started out with large tubs of eggs, scrambled to a fluffy yellow, carried about the common room so that everyone could partake. Then came the potatoes, chopped and fried in butter with onions, chives and a hard cheese. Ale and fresh milk was available. Fruit bowls decorated every table. Then a roasted yearling pig was paraded about by three men, two to carry and one to carve.

It was the most expensive breakfast Geralt had ever purchased; once he'd been quoted the price, coin up front, he'd almost turned around and left, but he knew he might miss his chance at Jaskier and then he’d be all day tracking him down again.

Jaskier played a few sets and then was replaced by female bard whose silhouette more than made up for her lack of musical accomplishment. At least, it seemed so to Geralt. Come to think of it, he'd never met a bard whose songs he did like.

_They can't be all that bad, surely, since everybody pays them. It must just be me._

“How have you been?” Jaskier asked politely, digging into a pile of cheesed potatoes. “Plenty of monsters available for slaying, I would assume?”

“Forget the monsters. This is something different. Something much larger.”

Jaskier’s interest perked up a bit. “A grand saga in the making, then? Maidens to rescue? In bulk? A multi act extravaganza that the continent will be singing about for centuries? Has it got anything to do with Nilfgaard, no, let me hear the story as it unfolds. I'm in, then.” He took a bite of ham and continued. “Tell me about it. I'll start working on the refrain.”

“No. You can't sing about it.” _Damn it, Borch. What am I supposed to say to him?_

“Can't sing about it?” Jaskier’s eyebrows rose. “Well, then, it's not really my thing, is it?” He took a couple of swallows of ale. “I'm too old for tromping about in swamps, Geralt. Or climbing mountains.” He shook his head. “I'm sure you can find someone younger to do the job. I can even suggest a couple of replacements. If you'd like to interview them tomorrow, I could arrange it.”

“It has to be you.” Jasker, old? Geralt wasn't used to thinking about the changes that time wrought on the human body. Nobody was ever in his life long enough to show the signs. But there were lines pressed into Jaskier’s tanned face, and wrinkles across his forehead. His dark hair was now more silver than brown. He hadn't looked in that way in the beginning.

He'd been so young and eager. So enthusiastic. Optimistic. His puppy-like pursuit had bubbled over Geralt's life, making the days move along more quickly, the journeys between jobs not so empty and inevitable. There’d been little enough time for his own thoughts, with Jaskier’s noise filling the silence.

“You'll break him in quickly enough.” Jaskier patted Geralt's arm. “I’ll make sure he’s warned of the particulars. Have some of the potatoes. They're the best in the Northern Kingdoms.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt gritted his teeth, knowing it would sound forced but it wasn't a word that ever dropped easily to his lips. “Please. Come with me.”

Jaskier’s eyes speared him keenly. “This is Borch's doing, isn't it? More of his self-improvement and personal development curriculum. Tell him I'm grateful for what he did for me. My time in Zerrikania was amazing. Transformative. He was right...it was something I needed badly. But I'm fine now. I've settled.”

“You've been to Zerrikania?” Geralt realized he was gaping at Jaskier like a gill-netted fish. He shoveled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

“Didn't he tell you? Well, the man keeps his own counsel, doesn’t he? Yes. Flew me there himself. Over the desert. In a basket. They have an oasis...beautiful. And the women. Oh, Geralt. They could break you like a twig. Well, maybe not you, of course. But me... Definitely. Glorious. Fierce. I could watch them for hours.

“Doesn't sound pleasant.” Geralt remembered the sound of the bandit’s neck breaking. The Zerrikanians were formidable.

“Warriors supreme. But also philosophers. They taught me…” Jaskier’s eyes dropped and he poked his fork into his eggs. “That I had been pursuing something I had no hope of catching. My whole life, really. They taught me how to look at myself without fear. That's the secret, you know. To look inside and not be afraid of what you see. No matter how much it hurts. It’s the only way to move on.” He stood up. “I'm off on my circuit. Takes about four weeks, which is just about the right amount of time. Enough to make the heart grow fonder but not enough to forget.” The lines grew taut on Jaskier's face. “Be well Geralt. I wish you only...the best that your life can give you.”

Something stabbed into Geralt's heart. He didn't know where the dagger had come from. It made no sense.

Jaskier was leaving. He'd said his goodbyes.

It wasn't like the times before, he and Jaskier had parted many times before. But this time was different. His instincts told him that a door was closing and if he didn't hurry, it would be slammed in his face and locked.

Why did he care about that?

Geralt rose swiftly and headed out of the inn.

If Jaskier was surprised to see Geralt and Roach waiting for him on the road that led east from Vengerberg, he gave little sign of it. He seemed more resigned than anything.

Jaskier’s mount was a placid, big-boned bay gelding who picked his way along the path with little interest or spirit, paying no attention to Jaskier’s compositions. Roach was irritated at having to slow her pace but the one time she tried to hurry the process along by nipping the bay she taken a kick that made her squeal.

Fortunately, Jaskier had had been sitting astride for that. He tended to move about on his horse, sometimes sideways, sometimes backward, sometimes lying down. “It helps me see things from different perspectives,” he explained it to Geralt.

They stopped for midday meal beside a gurgling stream, and sat on logs, eating their trail rations. “Why are you following me, Geralt?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Geralt replied honestly. _I was hoping you could tell me_. “It seemed important. To follow you. So I did.”

Jaskier’s mouth compressed into an unhappy line. He muttered something under his breath. “You're not going to change my mind. So...if that's the idea you might as well ride back the way you came.”

“You're angry at me.” The truth of that seemed obvious. As was its cause. “I owe you an apology.”

“Several of them, in fact,” Jaskier said lightly. “All of them proffered and accepted in absentia. So, set your conscience at ease. Nothing to be done here.”

“I shouldn't have said those things to you. I was angry and I took it out on you and it wasn't your fault.”

“As I've said, apology already accepted.”

“I haven't even apologized yet,” Geralt said in irritation. As usual, The bard wasn't letting him get in a word.

“You don't need to speak the words in order to say something, Geralt.” There was an infinite sadness in Jaskier’s eyes. “There's a whole language that is hidden from those who choose not to see it. The language of the heart.” He stood up, replaced his waterskin in his saddlebag and swung his leg over his horse. “This is the life I've chosen, and forgive me for being blunt, but you have no part in it.”

“What if I choose otherwise?” The words leaped out of Geralt, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He hadn't invited the bard to ride along with him all those years ago. Jaskier hardly had grounds for complaint if the tables were turned.

“Well I can hardly chase you off, can I?” The deep lines in Jaskier’s face grew pinched. “Fate and circumstance can be cruel mistresses, can they not? And irony. Let us never forget the bite of irony.”

Jaskier sang and talked to his horse as they walked. Never to Geralt. He began singing loudly as they approached a small town. By the time they had reached the outskirts, a crowd of a dozen people had gathered. A large man pulled Jaskier off his horse and pounded his shoulder in a jovial but bone-breaking way. Two girls grabbed Jaskier's arms and dragged him down the town’s single street. A young man with an earnest, sad face pulled himself on top of Jaskier’s horse and rode him after the procession.

They all sat in what apparently passed for a village square, a broad patch of dirt and weeds and the occasional flower, circling a dry fountain. Jaskier played, and passed on gossip and news about events concerning the kingdom. He told them that King Foltest had stopped the Nilfgaardian hoards cold and the land was safe. They all seemed to agree that was a good thing, but weren’t particularly worried about it.

Geralt could have educated them on who it was who had really stopped the Nilfgaardians, but it wasn't his story to tell. Yen's, if she chose.

A trio of girls brushed out Jaskier's hair and braided flowers into it. An old woman with a blind eye brought him a foaming mug of fresh cow’s milk. Cats wound around his feet, one of them leaped up to lick the milk from his upper lip.

“Oh, naughty Tiger!” squealed one of the girls and snatched him off the bard's lap.

“She was just giving me kisses,” the bard chuckled. “I can't say I've any objection to those.”

People came and went. They brought gifts and conversation and they touched him, again and again. Hugs, kisses, punches... They enveloped him and enfolded him. He was allowed to be part of them.

No one approached Geralt. He watched silently from some distance, his back against the corner of the square. Jaskier didn't introduce him.

This is what Borch had been talking about. There was something in Jaskier that people responded to. Something that made them reach out and draw him into their circles.

“Stay tonight?” The old woman with the blind eye patted Jaskier’s arm. “You can have the old room. It's a good one. We'll have an open pit barbecue tonight, eh, lads? There's that sheep pulled down by wolves. Should be hung long enough by now.”

The children squealed with excitement and raced off, dust clouds kicked up by their feet. Several of the men jumped up and strode away. “I'll get the spit, Auntie...” “I'll fetch mum for the seasoning...”

“My companion will need a place to stay as well.” Jaskier didn't meet Geralt's eyes.

A burly man, with a bald pate and arms like ham shanks, shrugged. “He can have the hay loft above my shop.” He gave Geralt a suspicious stare. “If you vouch for him, that is. Ain't he one of them Foreign Devil Hunters? What's he doing here? We got no Devils.”

Geralt fetched Roach, who had been dozing in the shadow of a house. “Is there room for my horse as well?”

“Aye. It'll cost you two ducats for hay and the cleaning.”

Geralt nodded. “If you'll show me where...”

“Follow me.”

This time, Geralt didn't even try to catch Jaskier's eyes. _There's no place for me among them. Did I ever make Jaskier feel like this, in the early days? Shut him out?_ It was hard to know, there had never been anything Geralt was a part of, so how could there have been any choice? To share or not.

At least he wouldn’t be sleeping on the ground.


	2. Conversation in a Hayloft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has been sent to the hayloft. As haylofts go, it's not a bad one. He reflects on how he ended up there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this book. The Yennefer saga is going on simultaneously, so I'm going to publish the next book of that set before moving on to Jaskier's POV.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! These are the laurels for which we writers labor...

Geralt stretched out full length on the straw, listening to the sound of Roach contentedly munching on her hay. It was warm and comfortable. The man’s workshop, with bellows-driven forge glowing below the loft, sent heat up through the ceiling into the straw. And it was fresh straw, not dusty or crusted with mildew.

Better than he'd been used to in the old days.

The sun had gone down an hour ago. Normally, like most Witchers, Geralt was able to send himself at will into the light doze that passed for sleep, but tonight that state was proving elusive.

_I need to tell him how important it is to Borch. That the fate of dragonkind rests on him. But I can't tell him what role he is to play. He'll assume Borch wants him to sing more songs. That is what he does._

There was a squeak from below; someone had opened the door and closed it. He heard Roach’s nicker and the sound of oats being poured into a box. Probably the blacksmith.

Then he heard the creek of wood, footsteps coming up the ladder. He sat up, alert in case the intruder meant him harm.

Jaskier's head cleared the edge of the loft. “Geralt?”

Too late to pretend he was asleep. “I was just settling down for the night. Roach thanks you for the oats.”

Jaskier sat on the wooden platform, propping his back against a vertical support. “Come down to the feast. There's plenty.”

“No. Thanks.” The thought of it was like a black hole yawning in his gut. “I've had dinner.”

“If you come down, I'll sing The Ballad of the White Wolf. They’ll like that...don't think they've heard it before."

Geralt settled back in the straw. “I'm good.”

“This is my life, Geralt. I know these people. I've been part of their lives for months. They want what I have to offer. And...they have what I want. What I have always wanted. Community. Belonging. Something familiar to wake up to every morning. What I used to chase, before, was an illusion. A thing I could never have. That's why...I pursued it so frantically and to the detriment of everything that I...”

The fate of dragonkind against one man's happiness. Was that the choice he was being asked to make? He could lure the bard in with some story, promise to make Yen portal him back to Aedirn afterward. Let Borch convince him.

“…everything that I was trying to achieve. Self-sabotaging, the Zerrikanians called it. Not that the sex wasn't good. But it wasn't what I really wanted.”

I don't understand, Geralt thought. How does fucking woman after woman substitute for Community? Or those other things you said you wanted? Jaskier still wasn't making sense. There was a piece of his story that still seemed to be missing. Geralt could almost feel the emptiness of it, the shape of something he couldn't quite lay his hands on.

“I understand why you want to stay here. I'm sorry.” Jaskier said after a moment. “Tonight...wasn't well done of me. A bit petty, truth be told. I'll see you in the morning.”

The ladder creaked, once, twice, three times and then Jaskier was gone.

In the morning, as Geralt sat astride Roach waiting for Jaskier to appear, the old woman with one eye approached and handed him up a sweet, hot bun and some spiced mutton wrapped in a clean cloth. He accepted it. “Thank you?”

Two of the girls brought flowers, and with a slightly uncertain look at Geralt, begin to braid them into Roach’s tail. Roach’s ears went back but Geralt made it absolutely clear to her that she was to stand for the procedure, all four feet on solid ground.

Jaskier's bay trotted out, as full of energy as Geralt remembered ever seeing him. Jaskier took a look at the flowers drooping in Roach’s tail, and the horse’s sullen mien. He held out his arms to the two girls, who flew to him and they hugged each other thoroughly. “You two have kind hearts,” he whispered to them. “Never lose them.”

There was a group of two dozen villagers to see them off, waving sadly and blowing kisses and pumping fists as they headed down the road toward Gulet.

“I still don't understand what it is that Borch needs of me. What other skills do I possess that can possibly be of interest to an ancient dragon? Explain it to me, Geralt.”

“I can't.”

“Can’t? Or won't? The two are very different conditions, you know.”

“I've sworn an oath.” That was true enough. And it conferred no dangerous information.

“To who?”

The conversation was getting more dangerous. One of the best ways to keep a secret was to make certain that nobody knew that the secret existed. If he said it was Borch, the next question would be “what about?” and when he couldn’t answer, there was the secret, existence exposed. “Can't say.”

“You're not leaving me much to go on.” Jaskier tore off a strip of dried mutton and washed it down with a drink from his water skin.

“It's important.”

“You keep saying that. However, when it comes right down to it, what you consider important and what I consider important...”

His medallion began to vibrate. There was something coming, he could feel it, all around him. In the earth. His hand touched the hilt of his sword but even as he did so he realized it wouldn’t do him any good. It wasn’t a monster that was surrounding him and Jaskier, it was…

“Get on your horse! Now!”

Jaskier scrambled up, looking around wildly. Why was Geralt looking so wild-eyed? Oh, there, he could see it now. The ground was moving. They had stopped over in a wooded glade, a lovely peaceful place that had given no hints at being other than it looked.

Geralt was already on Roach. “Jaskier! Mount!”

Really, why was Geralt so upset? And why wasn’t he simply wading in and cutting the monster down, whatever it was? It was because of Jaskier, always because Jaskier was in the way. This was one of the reasons he had quit. Jaskier flung his leg up and was barely astride before the branches erupted from the ground. Dozens of them, some gnarled and knotted, others slender and flexible. They ignored Jaskier and wrapped themselves around the Witcher. Roach screamed as she was dragged down. Geralt cut at the branches but they kept growing. “Run, Jaskier,” he growled.

_But they don't want me..._

_I have to do something. Perhaps I can play them a lullaby and send them to sleep_ , Jaskier thought in disgust. The Zerrikanians had taught him to use a sword but he’d never wanted to buy one of his own. Not my style.

Roach rolled to her feet and shook herself loose of the branches. Geralt kept chopping at the living wood, but even he was tiring. The slender tendrils wrapped around the hilt of his silver sword and yanked it from his hand. More branches erupted, darker, and with the stink of decay on their patchy bark. The silver sword lay on the ground. Jaskier slid down and picked it up, trying to find a way to throw it to Geralt.

Geralt was cocooned in branches. His arms, his chest, his face, his legs. They bound him so tightly that his struggles ceased, and Jaskier could barely see the labored rise and fall of his chest.

“Geralt? What do I do?”

The ground broke open and a woman crawled out. She rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her clothing. Beautiful of figure, her rounded bosoms full and flawless. Her lips were red, like blood. Her face was too pale. Malice glittered in her eyes. “Tell her if she wants her lover back, she'll have to come to me.” The woman tossed something on the ground. “She'll have to come to me. Tell her that he will be waiting. But...not to wait too long,” the woman crooned. “People are so fragile, aren't they? Beneath the earth…buried…forgotten.” Her head swayed back and forth. “Lovers never can be forgotten, can they?” Her gaze captured Jaskier’s. “Even when they are gone, they are never gone. Even when they were never lovers.”

The tree branches dragged Geralt below the surface of the earth and the woman disappeared as well, leaving only broken ground and a small object that glinted in the sun.

Jaskier went to pick it up. He stood, waiting for Geralt to dig his way up through the dirt. To appear, skin caked with mud, little but the whites of his eyes still clean. To be escorted off to a hot bath and a hearty meal at their next stop. “Geralt? Geralt!”

He waited.

The sun was almost set in the sky before Jaskier finally gave up. _Tell her..._ It had to be Yennefer, didn't it? Somehow Yennefer had put Geralt in danger again. Another day, another sexy but insane witch to deal with. Jaskier felt light-headed with terror. Geralt had been entombed, and an insane witch had him at her mercy.

This was beyond his power to deal with. Far, far beyond it. He'd have to go to Borch. Surely the dragon could track down the sorceress, or help him find a way to get Geralt back.

Or what was left of him. Buried for days, weeks.

I'm an idiot. Why didn't I leave right away? Jaskier pulled himself aboard his horse, grabbed up Roach’s reins and kicked the bay into a full gallop.

Because Geralt is Invincible. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. Until he's not.

It was a mistake he could not ever allow himself to make again.


End file.
